The outer court of CREON’S palace.  In the background the entrance to the royal apartments; on the right at the side a colonnade leading to MEDEA’s apartments.

MEDEA is standing in the foreground, behind her at a distance GORA is seen speaking to a servant of the king.

GORA.  Say to the king: 
             Medea takes no message from a slave. 
             Hath he aught to say to her,
             He must e’en come himself. 
             Perchance she’ll deign to hear him.

[The slave departs.]

(GORA comes forward and addresses MEDEA.)

They think that thou wilt go,
Taming thy hate, forgetting thy revenge. 
The fools! 
Or wilt thou go?  Wilt thou? 
I could almost believe thou wilt. 
For thou no longer art the proud Medea,
The royal seed of Colchis’ mighty king,
The wise and skilful daughter of a wise
And skilful mother. 
Else hadst thou not been patient, borne their gibes
So long, even until now!

MEDEA.  Ye gods!  O hear her!  Borne!  Been patient! 
             So long, even until now!

GORA.  I counseled thee to yield, to soften,
             When thou didst seek to tarry yet awhile;
             But thou wert blind, ensnared;
             The heavy stroke had not yet fallen,
             Which I foresaw, whereof I warned thee first. 
             But, now that it is fall’n, I bid thee stay! 
             They shall not laugh to scorn this Colchian wife,
             Heap insult on the blood of our proud kings! 
             Let them give back thy babes,
             The offshoots of that royal oak, now felled,
             Or perish, fall themselves,
             In darkness and in night! 
             Is all prepared for flight? 
             Or hast thou other plans?

MEDEA.  First I will have my children.  For the rest,
             My way will be made plain.

GORA.  Then thou wilt flee?

MEDEA.  I know not, yet.

GORA.  Then they will laugh at thee!

MEDEA.  Laugh at me?  No!

GORA.  What is thy purpose, then?

MEDEA.  I have no heart to plan or think at all. 
             Over the silent abyss
             Let dark night brood!

GORA.  If thou wouldst flee, then whither?

MEDEA (sorrowfully).

Whither?  Ah, whither?

GORA.  Here in this stranger-land
             There is no place for us.  They hate thee sore,
             These Greeks, and they will slay thee!

MEDEA.  Slay me?  Me? 
             Nay, it is I will slay them!

GORA.  And at home,
             There in far Colchis, danger waits us, too!

MEDEA.  O Colchis, Colchis!  O my fatherland!